


Dancing in the Dark

by madeofmydreams



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Assassin Derek Hale, F/M, Ghost!Peter, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26205814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeofmydreams/pseuds/madeofmydreams
Summary: King Gerard Argent decides talks with King Noah Stilinski have completely stalled and it's time to devastate him emotionally and strong arm him into handing over his land by sending Derek to do some damage.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 20
Kudos: 39





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrimReaperlover11](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrimReaperlover11/gifts).



> The rating and warnings are for future chapters!

Derek steeled himself against the inevitable violations to come before striding around the corner and up to His Majesty’s chambers. The doormen opened the doors without a pause because Gerard was waiting for him – Gerard had sent for him – and Gerard liked to demonstrate his own power whenever possible. There he was sitting slouched in a chair beside the fire, a goblet almost forgotten in his fingers, flanked by his infernal mirror. The room was dimmer than the hall and over furnished. Armoires, side tables, and life sized portraits of family members past and present draped the space in a hap hazard fashion. This was not where His Majesty impressed other powerful men; it was where he spooked the disenfranchised. Derek stopped several strides from the king and knelt. His furs pooled around his bended knee and he fixed his eyes on the contrast of their comfort and the unforgiving stone floor. It was warm in the room but he hadn’t the inclination to remove his cloak. “My liege,” he said after a moment. 

Gerard shifted in his seat and Derek heard him take a draught from his goblet. The goblet then clinked against the wooden table. “Your swift response is appreciated.”

Derek continued to kneel; he’d learned years ago that one must not take liberties with His Majesty, and yet his fingers twitched, itching to grasp the hilt of his sword. 

“Rise.” 

Derek stood and looked His Majesty squarely in the eye. The room seemed to dim even more and now Derek’s eyes had trouble distinguishing all the different shapes. He kept them human though. He’d learned not reveal his inner wolf before the king either. The mirror looked like an eerily still washbasin, dark with sloughed away grime, in its place beside His Majesty. 

“I’ve come to an impasse,” His Majesty drawled.

Derek suppressed a shudder and cocked his head at a calculated angle. 

“Noah, the churlish knave, doesn’t believe I have any leverage and thus you will be hitting him where it hurts.” His Majesty rose and turned to the mirror. It seemed to have grown larger in the past moments.

Derek swallowed.

“Slave in the magic mirror, come from the farthest space, through wind and darkness I summon thee, answer your king.”

The mirror’s surface lapped to life and its face emerged. “What doest thou wish, my king?”

His Majesty let out a manic chuckle, “Show me Noah Stilinski’s greatest weakness.”

The face in the mirror, obscured by smoke and the dim room paused a moment and then spoke, “The heart of the Stilinki king belongs to his favored son. Born of magic and tears he belongs to the heavens from whence he came.” 

His Majesty gestured impatiently. “Show me,” he said again.

The surface of the mirror clouded over and then cleared completely to a vivid picture of a young man. His hair hung in long chestnut braids down his back and a golden circlet sat upon his brow. He wore a plaid round his waist, reds and browns woven together. He looked like a crocus in late winter. His pale skin was soft against the snowy gardens in which he walked. He had thick brows and an upturned nose as well as spots adorning his porcelain skin. Derek wasn’t quite certain what to do with all the information before him. 

“Where is he?” His Majesty demanded.

The image shrank and the view seemed to rise above the garden and then above the castle itself. “The prince resides in the northern castle with his father.”

His Majesty began to laugh again. It was an echoing sound even in the crowded room. The various portraits seemed to take on a sinister leer but Derek couldn’t be sure because of the muted lighting. 

“You’ll kill him yourself,” His Majesty instructed Derek. “I won’t have this bungled and you are the best. Dispose of him plainly but keep yourself out of it. When you return, bring me his pretty little heart.” 

Derek bowed his head. He felt chilled despite the warmth of the fire and the safety of his furs. “Yes, my liege.” He knelt again, eyes tracking the shadows on the stone. His Majesty kept him there for several moments.

“You may go.”

Derek rose and began to turn.

“Take note,” His Majesty began bringing Derek to a halt as if he was a marionette with his strings cut. “to return quickly. I would hate for anything to happen to your sister whilst you were away.”

Derek bowed again and fled.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles discovering he's both human and a slave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Grim and Em for the brainstorming <3

Stiles couldn’t see anything, couldn’t divine anything. He felt heavy and thick as if his mind was trudging through the snow outside the castle walls. He was frozen in both ability and temperature. His arms would not do his bidding and yet he did move, his body lolled in gentle waves against something. He dreamed of darkness and growling voices. 

When he awoke he felt both heavy and light at once. Tears welled in his eyes and tracked down his face. He found himself stripped to his muslin tunic and hose, on a pallet, under some furs, in a cream colored tent. His legs refused him function, though his arms had regained some strength and he raked his fingers through his hair. His head had been shorn like a sheep. 

The Tent was spacious, similar to something he might’ve stayed in while travelling between castles. A blackened stove stood next to the entrance radiating heat to the room, piping smoke through the roof, and keeping the kettle atop it hot. There was a rustic sort of flooring made of young, whip like, woven branches at the entrance and a pair of soft looking leather shoes. A small table perched near the foot of the bed with stools bracketing it. 

Outside the tent he heard voices. Confident rolling murmurs followed by crunching snow. The tent flap opened. Stiles felt the cold air rush over his scalp and sting his face along the tear tracks. A mountain of a man ducked through the entrance. Stiles could divine nothing from him. Still, even without magic he was a prince, and he would carry himself accordingly.

“Who are you? What happened to me?”

The man knocked his boots against a tent pole, and then slung his fur cloak off his shoulders and onto a peg in the same pole. 

“Answer me,” Stiles demanded trying his best to keep the note of panic out of his voice. 

“On the contrary, Your Highness, you’ll be answering to me now.” The man smirked he unlaced his boots and left them on the branches. He stepped toward the bed bare footed.

“Pardon?” 

“We’ll need to change your name soon.” The man pulled something from his belt and approached Stiles. 

Stiles tried to drag himself away to no avail. His limbs hadn’t regained any efficacy and suddenly the man was crouched over him clasping a leather collar around his neck. Stiles dropped to the pallet. The collar must have some kind of magic imbrued into it for Stiles almost felt as if he could not breath despite the fact that it sat low on his neck with room to swallow. He reached for it. It was thin and strong with a circular pendant hanging in the hollow of his throat. 

“What have you done to me?” he gasped.

“It will leave just enough of your magic to keep you alive.”

Stiles’ fingers scrambled about on the pallet looking for any sort of weapon. He was able to pull out a single piece of straw. 

“Do you know me?” the man asked, head tilted to one side.

Stiles shook his head, eyes wide. 

“I’m Derek of Hale.”

Stiles tried to gulp but his mouth was dry. 

“You have two choices,” he continued. “I could kill you, or you could remain here, in my tent, as my slave.” 

Stiles’ ears roared. He tried to understand. “Ransom?” He asked. 

Derek leaned closer. Stiles felt the heat of his breath. “No ransom. No-one is coming for you. I was hired to kill you and that’s what your family believes has happened.”

Tears welled up in Stiles eyes anew. He’d wait of course. Find a way out of the magic shackles and destroy Ifrinn if he had to in order to return to his father. His chest reverberated as if it had been flung into a gaping chasm with no floor. His eyes filled to the brim obscuring his vision. 

His lethargic muscles didn’t even allow him to jump when he felt the bedding lift. Cool skin slid in next to him on the thin pallet. The man’s arm snaked around his waist. Stiles felt his heart pound in his head. He couldn’t think.

“You’re relatively safe,” the man’s voice. Derek. Derek’s voice rumbled too close to his ear. “At least here I’m the only assassin who knows where you are and that you’re alive.”

Stiles breath came in quick pants.

“This day has been never ending,” Derek said. “You’d better sleep. It will get you used to living as a human.”

Derek shifted onto his back and lifted Stiles as if he weighed nothing despite being a fully grown man. He arranged Stiles’ head on his chest and wrapped his arm across Stiles’ back. Stiles tried to make a questioning noise but Derek only grunted back. 

They lay there for hours or minutes. Derek’s breath settled into sleep. Stiles reached behind his neck to learn all he could about the clasp there only to find smooth leather no matter which direction he ran his hand. He settled finally, on Derek’s chest and eventually succumbed to exhaustion. He’d find a way out.

Tomorrow. 

#

Stiles awoke to a sultry female voice chiding him, or perhaps the room in general, “Back in my day slaves did not lie abed longer than their masters.”

Stiles scrambled to standing, the bedding tangled around his feet. 

“No wonder he decided to keep you,” the woman leered; her eyes raked him up and down. She looked to be not five and twenty with flaxen locks and a shapely mouth. She wore a similar leather collar with a triskelion dangling from the center. “Come along, Red we’ve got to get you out of that muslin. It wouldn’t do for a slave to be wearing something quite so fine.” She stepped close to him and he thought he felt her sniff his neck.

Stiles clutched at his underclothes, not the least interested in being disrobed before this woman, but she only tossed a pile of rough spun fabric clothing onto a trunk that sat behind the sleeping pallet. “I’m Erica, by the by. Master bought me some three winters hence.” She winked and whirled around him faster than he thought should be naturally possible to the pallet and bedding. “Go on,” she said, “get dressed whilst I make up the bed. He’ll be wanting you soon.” 

Stiles gradually unclenched his fingers and drew his tunic off his shoulders, pleased he had a bit more strength than the previous day. He unwound the ties to his hose and shivered as the cool air danced over his skin. He pulled the rough spun tunic over his head, the new hose up his legs and clasped a vaguely red cloak about his shoulders. Erica had finished up straightening the furs so that they lay in an inviting pile atop the pallet. She plucked up his clothes and folded them with deft fingers before tucking the bundle into the trunk. Stiles tried getting a look inside but she shooed him away, “It’s only the master’s clothing and parchment. He doesn’t keep any weapons in here.” 

“I wasn’t looking for weapons,” Stiles retorted.

Erica laughed, her head tilted back and her eyes took on a hint of gold. 

“The master?” Stiles ventured. “Is he,” he trailed off without framing an actual request. 

“He is,” she replied.

“He is what?” 

“Everything you think, only likely more dangerous.”

“I’ve no doubt he’s dangerous,” Stiles confessed. “The last I remember I was taking tea in the library. I have no idea how he got through the guards; through my own essence.” He shivered, internally reaching for his magic; it was missing. He’d always been able to feel it before, even when he had almost exhausted himself in some pursuit or other. 

“It’s best just to forget,” she said. “He may be dangerous. But you’re likely safer here than anywhere, provided His Majesty’s mirror hasn’t already sussed us out. Here,” she handed him a pair of boots. His own boots he noted.

“His Majesty King Noah?” Stiles felt as if he had stepped into the middle of a novel that all the other characters had been reading from the beginning. He slid into and laced up his boots through muscle memory. 

“Gerard,” she corrected.

“Gerard.” Stiles said flatly as spite began to rise in his belly, “My father had best not treat with him.”

“Oh, Gerard has no intention of treating. That’s why he sent Derek. His Highness is most certainly angling for a war.” 

“I must-”

Erica shushed him. “What you must do is get yourself to the master,” she said. “Come along.” and with that Stiles found himself stepping out into the snow covered camp for the first time. 

The camp was a collection of five tents interspersed between trees with an axe resting on a particularly magnificent stump and a large stack of roughly hewn wood in the center. “We bathe and wash clothing there,” Erica gestured to the next tent. “Straight ahead is the kitchen,” she continued, “You’ll be needing the latrine before you see the master I expect.” She led him down a little trail. She whistled as they approached a small tent. “You can whistle?” she asked him.

“I’m not a knave,” Stiles responded.

“No matter, it’s how we make our presence known. It’s cold but far enough from camp and water. Go on then, I’ll wait up the path.”

Stiles quickly made use of the latrine and hurried back to Erica. They walked back to camp in a preternatural silence. He berated himself mentally because Erica clearly slowed her pace for him. His breathing came too quick and his lungs expanded and burned as if he were sprinting rather than gently ascending the slope into camp. He wasn’t sure if he couldn’t hear the forest humming with life around them because the sound was missing, or his ears were too full of his own harsh breath and their shuffling footsteps. Their cadence further slowed to a halt as the forest broke and they had an unobstructed view of the tents. Stiles slumped against a long established poplar and caught his breath.

“Welcome to Deadwood,” Erica said, laughter poorly concealed in her tone. “Everyone who lives here either is, or should be dead.” She grabbed Stiles wrist and pulled him, stumbling, toward the kitchen tent. 

“I’ve woken Little Red!” She called out when they ducked inside. It had a similar mat of woven sticks where they stamped off the snow from their boots. 

“Did we settle on Red then?” a curly headed fellow asked. He was sitting at a long table in the closest position to the stove. He was dressed much like Stiles and wore the same collar with a triskelion pendant. 

“We can’t very well be calling him Genim can we? And John’s a bit plain,” Erica said. 

“Plain is good,” came a voice from the end of the table. Stiles straightened and pulled his cloak more firmly about his shoulders. Derek was lounging on the bench with a steaming bowl in front of him. 

“It’s not like the mirror can hear us,” Erica shot back. “You hid him well, now you persuade Gerard you’ve celebrated a job well done by purchasing a strumpet.”

Derek looked down at his bowl and took an aggressive bite with his spoon. 

“You have the manners of a wolf,” Erica complained, and the tent filled with faint snickers. 

“Sit,” the curly haired one said, looking directly at Stiles. “I’ll get you some breakfast.” He got up from the table. “I’m Isaac.”

Stiles found his way to the closest section of bench and coincidentally the furthest from Derek. Erica intervened though, hooking her arm through his and leading him around the long table toward his kidnapper. “He’s dressed and ready for inspection, Sir,” Erica said with an almost flippant curtsy. “You must admit he’s lovely.”

Stiles reached for his magic and tried to pull up a shield around himself only to feel blank space where the power should have been. He couldn’t discern, couldn’t see and now he felt as if he were swimming in the cold air and didn’t quite know which way was up. 

“For the sake of St. Paul put the man in a seat, won’t you?” Isaac called.

Stiles felt more than one set of hands help him onto the bench. He slumped forward gratefully and rested his head on the table. 

“You can’t use your magic,” Derek said. “Trying will only cause you illness.”

Tears leaked out of Stiles eyes. He couldn’t shield or discern. He was Dia knows how far from home and if these fiends were to be believed not a soul searched for him. How his father’s heart must have burst upon the news. Now here he was essentially useless. He couldn’t walk the short distance from the latrine without growing winded. He didn’t understand half of what was spoken to him and the new clothing was irritating his skin. He certainly wouldn’t escape today and his hopes were not all that high for the morrow either. 

He took a breath and sat up when a bowl was placed by his head. “Eat up,” Isaac said placing a spoon beside the bowl. The bowl and spoon, aye, even the table were finer than a camp in the woods called for. None would be out of place in Stiles own home. Stiles traced his finger along the silver triskelion in the silver spoon. He tried to remember a family that used such a coat of arms but his head ached. He likely did need food. 

It was porridge, and once he’d tasted it he found it pleasantly sweetened with honey. “Where did you get the milk?” he asked.

“We keep goats,” Isaac said

Stiles took another bite, felt the weight of the spoon in his hand, the heat of the porridge in his mouth. He wondered if he’d be seeing the goats or if he’d be kept locked away. He looked about the tent. There were six small trunks along the far wall. Isaac sat back in his spot next to the stove. Erica also sat at the table, fletching arrows. Across from him Derek ate. His form fine enough for court.

Stiles would puzzle it out later. For now, he needed to regain strength; he would never return to his father without it. He filled his spoon with porridge and lifted it to his lips.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the tags... I'm not sure how triggering this might be but there are injuries and some non-con in this chapter so take care of yourselves lovelies~! I'm happy to provide more info if you're debating... I'm madeofmydreams on Tumblr and madeofmydreams#6786 on Discord.

After breakfast the dishes were cleared from the table and placed in a large basket which Isaac carried away to the wash tent, Stiles stumbling along behind him. “You don’t wash in the kitchen?” He asked, still clasping his red cloak around his shoulders

“We’re stronger than average,” Isaac replied. “A separate wash tent gives a bit more privacy and helps keep the camp smell to a minimum.” he paused and sniffed pointedly in Stiles’ direction. You’ll be needing to bathe soon yourself, Little Red. 

Stiles lifted the edge of his new tunic and nosed at it. He didn’t smell anything in particular but he did notice the way his skin looked pink and tender under the rough fabric. He sighed. In just an hour his skin had begun rebelling against the texture and he didn’t have any pots of crème with him to aid the healing.

They tromped through muddy snow across the cutting yard and ducked through the entrance to the wash tent. Stiles paused and let his skin adjust to the heat of the room and his eyes adjust to the lack of light. He unclasped his cloak and hung it on one of the hooks by the door. The tent was filled with steam. Somehow a pool stood in the middle of the room. Stiles reached out to touch it. It felt as if it was made of stone but it was warm to the touch. He dipped his fingers into the water. It felt almost too hot and he groaned in pleasure. 

Isaac’s laughter startled him and he sheepishly shook the water from his fingertips. 

“You’ll be bathing after we sup, Little Red, now it’s time to do the washing up.” Isaac showed them the large pot they had for washing dishes. First they scraped anything they could into a slop bucket, then stacked the dishes in the pot. They took a cake of soap and a scrub brush and coated all the dishes with soap in brisk strokes. There were two stoves in the wash tent, one to each side of the door and both had three steaming kettles atop them. Isaac showed Stiles how to shift the kettles to the hottest part of the stove and retrieve them when they’d reached a rousing boil. 

They poured the hot water over the dishes. Stiles couldn’t get close without burning himself but Isaac reached his hand in without trouble fishing out various dishes and cutlery, scrubbing at any stubborn specks with a brush and setting each clean item high on a wooden rack to steam dry above one of the stoves. “If this ends up being your job,” he said to Stiles, “You can wait for the water to cool a bit, don’t hurt yourself.” He quirked a grin in Stiles direction. “We wouldn’t want to try leveraging damaged goods.”

Stiles turned away and busied himself by stacking the cakes of soap neatly by the pool of water, “So there is a chance of ransom,” he muttered.

“There isn’t actually,” Isaac said right by his ear.

Stiles jumped and knocked over the soap cakes. They scattered over the woven branch flooring. “How could you even hear that?”

“Big ears.” Isaac laughed. “You won’t get away from us, Little Red. Don’t even bother trying.”

Stiles felt frozen despite the heat of the bathing tent. He took a deep breath in through his nose and focused on calming his heartbeat. Once he had slowed down his breath he extended a trembling hand to gather the cakes of soap. They felt soft in his hand, almost slimy. His fingers sank into the surface of a bar. Then Isaac was helping him gather them up and stack them neatly again. 

They rinsed their soapy hands and then gathered up the slop bucket with dirty water. Isaac carried it and Stiles felt a bit childish trailing in his wake, afraid of his company, yet more fearful of the unforgiving snow. He was grateful to be wearing his own boots and wondered what fate had befallen his plaid. Once they’d made it a hundred or so strides away from camp Isaac flung the contents of the dirty water bucket into the woods. 

They turned then and made their way up a small path that led to a stream. Isaac partially filled the bucket and swirled the water around. “I normally rinse until it smells clean,” he said. “You had best just always rinse three times.” He proceeded to do just that, walking 10 strides away from the creek each time he emptied the bucket. He then filled it to the top. 

The rest of the morning was filled with returning the clean crockery, feeding the goats, refilling kettles, and emptying ash pans. Despite the fact that Isaac did most of the more strenuous tasks Stiles felt exhausted. He wanted to curl up on a settee in his library and read something interesting. Isaac shared nothing with him other than instructions on how best to accomplish tasks and he showed off his boundless energy and superior strength at every turn. 

Midday allowed Stiles a brief respite. He sat on a bench in the main tent and tried to maintain his posture. A man even larger than Derek was at the stove. He lifted the lid to an iron pan and a mouthwatering scent surrounded Stiles. He closed his eyes to better appreciate it. Stiles couldn’t remember the last time he was as ready to sup and sleep and yet it was only dinner now. Isaac brought him a goblet of wine and he took a deep draught. 

The tent filled with people who chattered to each other while stomping snow from their shoes and hanging their cloaks. The cook for dinner was a man called Boyd, who only nodded in Stiles’ direction upon introduction.

Stiles was also introduced to a red headed lady who carried herself very well indeed. She looked him over and Stiles felt as if his soul had been evaluated and found wanting. He tried to remember his father and his station but he felt nothing like himself. It was almost as if he looked down on the scene from above; no amount of fortitude could shore him against the gaping hole that used to be his magic or the bone deep exhaustion he felt. 

“So this is Derek’s little pet?” Stiles heard a voice say with a nasty sort of sneer blatant in the tone.

“You needn’t be churlish,” Lydia chided

The man who had spoken dropped down onto the bench across the table from Stiles. “I had to drag his bloody clothes half way across the mountain range whilst he was cradled like a newborn kid, so pardon my ire,” he said. He had hair the color of ripe barely cropped close to his head. 

Stiles reached up and touched his own shorn locks. He missed the weight of his hair flowing down his back. He felt unbalanced without it. So much of his self had been ripped from him and still he sat tall as though at his father’s right hand rather than slumped on a bench as a slave, to be degraded at will. 

Derek ducked through the entrance to the tent and knocked the snow from his boots. Stiles didn’t trust the softness in his manner, the way he laid a hand on each person he encountered. Boyd seemed to still and close his eyes for a moment when Derek touched him. Erica grinned impishly and leaned into him and Isaac bowed his head. 

Did Derek have some kind of power of his own? Was that how he managed to siphon all the magical energy from Stiles? 

Lydia reached for Derek’s hand and brought it to her neck briefly, then turned away as if nothing had happened. The man across from Stiles received a terse touch as Derek rounded the table. Derek then sat next to Stiles with his legs splayed to either side of the bench, so close he could feel the heat radiating off him. His thighs bracketed Stiles and he brought a hand up to Stiles’ neck just under the collar. 

Suddenly all the aches and pain he hadn’t even been aware of left him and he couldn’t help but sway in his place on the bench. Derek’s hand slid around his shoulder and pulled him back so that he rested against Derek’s chest; Derek’s beard skimmed his temple. Derek handed Stiles his goblet. “Human’s need to be careful to eat and drink enough,” he said gruffly.

“You say that as if you’re not human yourself.” In his periphery Stiles felt more than saw the others freeze. “What magic do you possess?” He tried sitting up but his limbs felt leaden and Derek’s forearm rested heavy on his chest. 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lydia derided. “You’re the only one with divine ability here and you’re wearing a dampener.” she gestured to her own bare throat. 

“Rest,” Derek said, “You’ve been ill recently.”

“I’ve been benumbed, which is entirely different from being ill.” Stiles said. 

Derek scoffed and accepted the goblet Isaac brought to him. He sipped and Stiles could feel his throat bob against the back of his head and his whiskers adding warmth to his bare head. Stiles drank from his own goblet and let the spiced mead that it held heat him from the inside. 

They were brought plates next, by Erica, though it seemed everyone else circled around to acquire their own from the stove. Stiles’ plate had as much food as Derek’s and he wondered what sort of camp this was. What sort of Master shared his food so plentifully? What sort of slave was collared and then held gently? Was the collar indicative of submission or simply a way to ensure he remained weak?

He ate. There was delicious crusty bread and lentil soup. He hadn’t a knife on him so he tore into the bread with only his teeth. Eating brought him partially back to life. His limbs no longer ached as if he’d trekked miles. He was warm. They finished the meal with a baked apple. Stiles felt almost like himself again, and then he reached for his magic. 

He was still empty. It hurt to touch the place where his magic should be. His eyes filled unexpectedly and he tried to blink the tears away. 

“Aww, Does Widdle Wed need a nap?” The blond man asked in a mocking voice.

“Hold your tongue, Jackson,” Derek growled. 

Stiles sat up, knocking Derek’s arm from his shoulder. “Unlike some of you, I am not in my home, nor do I have access to the skills to which I am accustom. I beg you pardon me for feeling pain.”

Jackson scoffed and looked away. Stiles set his spoon precisely into his empty bowl and held his head high. He turned away and cast about for something to say. Lydia took a dainty bite of baked apple and he noticed the fine needle work on her shift.

“The embroidery on your gown is impeccable, Lady Lydia,” he said to alter the conversation.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she replied. “We traded for the cotton, but dyed it ourselves.” 

“That makes it doubly impressive,” Stiles said, and so they continued on for some time.

When the meal concluded and Isaac stood, Stiles followed suit. Derek touched his wrist for a moment but didn’t stop him and so he continued gathering up their dishes and placing them in the basket. He was alert, aware of the eyes on him and it reinforced his posture. They could look all they liked, he was Prince Genim Mieczyslaw Stilinski only son and heir to King Noah John Stilinki and he would not be cowed by some back woods knave. 

He wrapped his new cloak about his shoulders and pulled the hood over his shorn hair, trapping in the heat of the room before crouching and lifting the entirety of the basket for the first time. It was heavy and his muscles strained under the weight, but it wasn’t impossible. He turned and backed out of the tent and then walked carefully across the cutting yard to the wash tent.

It was warm inside and he set the basket down, sweat dripped down his forehead and across his eyebrows. One upshot to a shorn head was that his locks weren’t sticking to his neck or catching under his armpits. He hung his cloak on the hook then fed the fires in the belly of each stove and moved the kettles to catch the best of the heat. Then he sat down on a bench for a moment. His limbs trembled from the effort and despite having no company in the tent he felt watched. 

He stood, swayed, and steadied himself with one hand on the large bathing tub. The washing up would not conquer him; it was something any kitchen wench could do. He scraped each plate into the slop bucket before soaping it up and placing it carefully in the washbasin.   
The kettles had reached a rolling boil and so he gingerly lifted one off the stove and began pouring it over the dishes in the wash basin. The water cascaded and splashed creating suds and making the fine bone china almost as white as the snow.

“I see now what all the excitement is about,” a voice said. 

Stiles whirled around, kettle clutched in his grip ready to bludgeon if necessary. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

The sunlight filtered through the canvas giving the interior of the tent a golden glow. Stiles couldn’t see the owner of the voice. 

A laugh huffed next to his ear and he spun again. Steaming water sloshed from the kettle and over his hands he shrieked but didn’t let go. 

“God’s bones, Child,” came the voice again, this time attached to the shape of a man. He took the kettle from Stiles and began packing snow around the burn. “I was just having a bit of fun and now look what you’ve done.”

“Who are you?” Stiles demanded.

The man wavered as if he were a bit transparent. Then within a blink he was gone.

Stiles grabbed for his magic with as much determination as he could muster and it felt as if he had fallen from a great height and was still waiting for the pain. He swayed where he stood and then there was darkness.

#

When Stiles woke it was to the steady rhythm of a swinging axe. He felt almost whole, and thought for a moment that he was home, in his bed after some kind of misadventure with his stepbrother. Then he noticed the hand curled around his wrist. He yanked his hand away and was met with a dull throbbing ache from where he’d been burned. Derek sat cross legged beside the pallet, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“There was a man- a specter- in the wash tent,” Stiles said. 

Derek let out a breath and his shoulders slumped. “Peter,” he said. 

“I was,” Stiles hesitated, “startled.”

“He’s dead.” Derek said.

Stiles waited for explanation and the longer one didn’t come the more anxious he became. He sat up. His back ached. His fingers scrabbled at the collar around his neck. His heart beat loud in his ears. 

“Cease,” Derek said pulling his hands away from the collar. 

Stiles fought against his grip but gained no ground. “You must release me.” His hands grappled at Derek’s brocade tunic. “You cannot leave us in a camp with a demon and no defenses.” Stiles sought out Derek’s gaze. “Surely you do not wish your own end?”

Derek dropped his gaze and released his hands. “Peter isn’t a demon. He is but a ghost; here to haunt me because of my transgressions.” 

Stiles blinked. “Go on,” he said his breaths slowed down. 

“I ripped his throat out, with my teeth.” Derek smirked, his teeth white against the dark brown of his beard. Stiles imagined them dripping with blood and shuddered. 

“Am I to gather it was merited?” Stiles felt a bit more centered despite the macabre image. Ghosts were much more easily handled than demons. “You could still release me,” he gestured to the collar around his neck, “I could exercise a ghost without much trouble had I access to my abilities.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Derek stood in one smooth motion then strode to the entrance of the tent. “I’m sending Boyd to attend you. You need to bathe before we sup, you’re rank with anxiety.”

Stiles sat up a bit straighter and opened his mouth to retort, but Derek had already disappeared through the tent flap, cloak sweeping behind him. 

#

He hadn’t been alone in Derek’s tent long enough to make an actual search for weaponry of any kind when Boyd came to retrieve him. Stiles had thought about trying to obtain some kind of information from the taciturn giant but decided instead to conserve his resources. 

He followed Boyd to the wash tent, obediently stripped – aside from the collar around his neck – and sank into that marvelous stone pool. Boyd laid out new stockings and fresh tunic as well as oils and a razor blade while he soaked off the grime. The last bath he’d taken had been less than a week ago but he felt as if it had been a fortnight at least. 

The pool was the most extravagant thing Stiles had ever come across outside of a palace. The water felt just on the delicious side of too hot. He took a deep breath and allowed his head to fall back and his legs bob in the water. How long had it been since he’d had enough space to float?

He eyed the razor wondering if he would be able hide it on his person. While the blade removed the stubble from his face, however, it never actually left Boyd’s possession. The experience was arduous only in its humility. Boyd bathed him, shaved him, dried him, and rubbed the raw bits of his skin with cream. He was permitted dress himself, though it had been a near thing. 

“My Laird will be pleased,” Boyd approved gruffly when Stiles was dressed. 

“I myself was worried about that,” Stiles said flippantly. 

Boyd raised an eyebrow. “You are aware that my laird will take his pleasure with you.”

Stiles stiffened. “I am a man,” he said.

“You are a full comely creature nonetheless, and my laird has no need of another slave lest it be for his pleasure.” 

“You must be in jest. I am a prince reduced to nothing and you wish me to also warm my master’s bed?”

Boyd set a hand on his shoulder and squeezed briefly. “He spared your life; you must be of use to him in some way.”

“Surely I am of use to him as leverage, surely he doesn’t desire me-” Stiles broke off remembering all of the moments Derek had pulled him closer, had practically cradled him like a babe to his chest. His cheeks flamed. To think he’d been in Derek’s bed for his gratification and not simply to prevent escape. 

Boyd pressed a small vial of oil into the palm of his hand. “All I am certain of, is he said when he took you, that you were too fair to die, and he baid me this afternoon to attend to your cleanliness.”

Stiles took the vial but closed his eyes and wished for the earth to swallow him up. 

#

They dined in Derek’s tent at the small table illuminated by two candles and the meal was quiet without the chatter of the others in the camp. Sup was light yet good; a spread of fine bread and cheeses with olives and spiced mead in goblets. Stiles began eating with trepidation but as Derek paid him little mind he relaxed. Boyd likely had misunderstood. Stiles knew well his own freckled face and upturned nose. Without his hair hanging to his waist and his title there was little to recommend him. Even with those things he’d been snubbed by many a lady at home. He was well acquainted with his own undesirability on a primal level. 

It hadn’t mattered much. He would marry for the good of the kingdom and visit his wife until he had an heir, preferably two. He would be busy with the welfare of his people, the management of his nobles and the training up of his heirs. 

He wondered what his father was doing, and if his stepbrother had been named crown prince in his absence. He wondered if his people were preparing for war, and how they would fare without him at their side. He was so caught up in these thoughts that it shocked him when Derek caught his hand and drew him up off the stool. 

He was suddenly in Derek’s arms with soft lips and slightly scratchy whiskers at his neck. He felt the slight press of teeth and his heart sped up. Derek’s hands were busy untying the laces on his tunic and sliding his fingers across Stile’s bare skin. Stiles found himself spun around, Derek at his back, and his tunic raised over his head. 

“Forgive me,” Derek whispered, then licked Stiles irritated skin. 

Stiles wasn’t certain the plea was for his ears. The sensation of Derek’s mouth on his skin had him squirming. He tried to remember the stories Scott had told of his conquests, how long this might last, if it was likely to get any worse. 

Derek undid the ties to Stiles hose and rolled them down his legs. Stiles didn’t know how he was supposed to stand or if he needed to do anything in particular. He was completely flaccid, his cock not the least interested in this turn of events. Then Derek began disrobing and Stiles shot a careful glance at the man’s prick, he didn’t seem particularly invested either. Regardless, as soon as he had removed his stockings, Derek backed Stiles up to the pallet and laid him down. Derek kissed his chest and nipples. Stiles turned his head away and kept his eyes closed. Derek rutted into the crease between his thigh and his groin while Stiles waited for it to end, and waited for it to get worse, but Derek didn’t even seem to achieve a full erection.

After some time Derek stopped his steady motion and Stiles, anticipating that more of his body would be required was surprised to feel a gentle kiss on his forehead. Derek then flipped them around and arranged Stiles as he was last night across Derek’s chest. 

“I am penitent,” Derek said into the quiet and the candlelight. 

“I confess I am quite at a loss,” Stiles responded. The clammy feeling had left his body and he now felt a queer mix of empty and warm.

“I couldn’t think of another way,” Derek responded and then pressed another kiss to Stiles’ temple. They lay in silence for several moments before Derek took a deep breath. “Get some sleep, Little Red,” he said. 

They didn’t speak anymore that evening but it was a long time before either of them succumbed to slumber.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading and if you have the time drop a comment and let me know what you think!


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